Fustercluck
by Rargamonster
Summary: College AU. He had been numb for so long, and he would do anything to feel again - even if that meant putting himself through hell and back. Eventual PruAusSwiss.
1. Chapter 1

**Fustercluck**

**AKA Clusterfuck**

**A/N: **Hi there everyone - I hate to start out a story with a bunch of explanations/warnings, but I feel it's necessary for this fic. You don't technically have to read this, I guess, but don't get mad at me and say I didn't warn you if you decide to just skip it over.

One: I wanted to title this fic _Clusterfuck_ but I figured that putting an F-bomb in a publicly viewable title would be frowned upon; hence the Spoonerism. I think this in and of itself should give you an idea of how I use profanity; if you have a problem with strong language, please do us both a favor and don't read this.

Two: This fic is not going to be happy or fluffy in the least. It will be dark, it will deal with mature themes, there will be absolutely unhealthy behavior and things will happen that I don't necessarily condone. That's all part of life, though - sometimes things happen that aren't healthy or happy or pretty and you have to deal with it as best you can. I _will _put up warnings at the beginning of each chapter for any topics discussed that I think might be upsetting. PLEASE do not read if you think a particular chapter might bother you.

Three: I'm not going to bother committing to an update schedule, because I'm a slow writer and I won't be able to keep it. But I do have this whole fic outlined and I don't plan on abandoning it.

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: General destructive thought patterns; _very_ brief mention of sucidal thoughts.

**Chapter One**

Gilbert never thought that he would be one to be staring at the clock, counting down the minutes until the summer was _over, _but, regardless, that was what he found himself doing, casually tucked away in the corner with the vending machines, conveniently out of the line of sight from the break room door.

5 o'clock. Fucking _finally._

He punched his time card and was out the door before the clock read 5:01, fingers already mussing up his neatly combed hair, loosening his tie, untucking his shirt and undoing the top button. He hopped on the bus that would take him away from this place just before it pulled away from the curb, flipping off the building he had just left as it shrank into the distance.

* * *

The apartment was empty when Gil got back – Antonio was still working, his last day of full hours before he cut back for the school year, and god only knew what the hell Francis was up to – but that suited Gilbert fine, as he just wanted to change out of his work clothes and head out for a run. There weren't many things that calmed him down better than some hard exercise (okay, that was a lie; there were plenty of things that calmed him down just as well or better than exercise, but even though it was Friday, it was only 5:30 and he didn't want to feel like a fucking addict or something) and he could really use a run in the park to unwind right now.

He slipped back out of the apartment in his running shoes that had been battered halfway to hell and back and took off, feet pounding the pavement, towards the little park several blocks away from his building – it was a piece of shit park in this piece of shit city, but there were ducks that lived by the pond, and sometimes it was worth going there just to watch them paddle around aimlessly on the water. Particularly in the springtime when there were ducklings, which, although he would never admit it aloud, were the most adorable fucking things he had ever seen.

Running had always been therapeutic, in a way, but Gil had never quite been sure why. It was definitely more relaxing than meeting Ludwig at the gym for some lifting – fuck, just about anything was more relaxing than spending an otherwise lovely afternoon with his uptight, too-perfect little brother. There was something that was more than a little bit galling about being lectured over some of his more questionable lifestyle choices by someone he'd taught to climb trees and tie shoelaces as a kid. Sometimes he found himself wondering why the hell Ludwig kept showing up for their thrice-weekly lifting sessions –there was no question that Ludwig didn't exactly _enjoy_ their thrice-weekly joint lifting sessions in the purest sense of the word, but he still showed up, exactly on time, three days a week. That's the kind of person his little brother was: reliable and loyal, particularly to family. All of the things Gil wasn't, as he was constantly reminded by their father.

Even though Ludwig was a fucking nag (another trait he had inherited from dear old dad), Gilbert supposed he had to appreciate all of that at least a little bit. Ludwig didn't _have_ to still come and see him (he rarely saw Dad anymore, these days...) yet, for all their disagreements, all their personality clashes, every argument they'd ever had, big or small, Ludwig had never walked away from him. Ludwig had never left. He didn't have many things in his life that were so stable, so constant.

Running was different, though. Solitary. Less pressure, no awkwardly stilted conversations to keep up – just Gil and his music and his thoughts (or lack thereof) and the pounding in his feet and the burning in his lungs. The fuzzy feeling of released endorphins afterwards, the lingering soreness in his muscles in the days following.

He could ponder on the philosophy behind his very existence if he wanted to, or try and guess what catastrophe was about to happen in his life this week, or just say fuck it all and watch the ducklings paddle around in circles on the water as he ran in circles around them on the grass.

Today he thought about how fucking glad he was that he'd never have to set foot inside the damn office again.

As far as things went, it was a summer job, so he really couldn't complain; with how the economy was (god, here he was thinking about the economy, next thing he knew, he'd be slicking his hair back and studying mechanical engineering and being an all-around stodgy asshole like _someone_ he knew) he was lucky he could even find a job, particularly one that was relevant to his studies. Antonio had been stuck waiting tables all summer, and neither of them had any idea what Francis had been up to – he paid his share of the rent on time every month, so there was nothing to complain about really, and they had learned long ago that it was better not to ask questions about what Francis did in his spare time.

So he should be feeling lucky that he even had a job and a source of income and something to stick on his resume as evidence that he was a competent human being and not a complete and total fuckup, but it was hard for him to feel lucky at all. It had just been so mind-numbingly dull that he thought he might end up climbing to the roof of that tall, shiny office building and leaping off if he had to do this every single day until retirement.

It seriously wasn't worth living, if all there was to life was _this_.

It rang stale in the same kind of way that heaven had, back when Father had forced him to go to church as a kid – it was the "good" option, the one that everyone was supposed to want, but, in the end, the thought of sitting up there on a cloud singing hymns for eternity, surrounded by all of these other numbingly boring, righteous people was enough to make Gilbert want to run, screaming, straight for hell. He'd take being burned alive if it meant he got to _live_, got to feel, and this sentiment was quickly becoming one of the central ones in his lifestyle.

He'd been far too numb for far too long, and he feared that someday, he'd end up a boring old man in a suit and tie typing away at a computer in a cubicle somewhere for eight hours a day, coming home to a wife and approximately two and a half children and a house with a white picket fence, drowning in the blankness of mediocrity and wondering when he'd stopped living. Like his father. Hell, like _Ludwig._

Sometimes, he thought he was halfway there already. Life had always been dull, his brain numbed by the sheer repetitiveness of the same fucking routine, day in and day out. When was the last time he'd felt something – really, truly felt something? When was the last time he'd smiled without forcing it, the last time he'd felt moved by any kind of emotion besides a vague sense of frustration at the way his life had stagnated?

When was the last time he had _talked_ to someone, and had an actual conversation beyond the superficial?

And when was the last time someone had noticed that it wasn't all alright? That someone had looked into his eyes and seen the emptiness, the dullness, the spark that had left? That he was only a shell, a caricature of what he had once been, one of those dolls where you pull the string and it'll parrot back a phrase – "Awesome, awesome, awesome" - why the fuck didn't anyone realize that word was so _meaningless?_ He'd say it all the time, but it didn't fucking mean anything - just another generic placeholder descriptor because he couldn't drudge up the emotion necessary to say anything else.

Had anyone ever noticed? Had he ever not been this broken? Had he become so good at being this actor playing the part of the arrogant, abrasive, hell-raising fuck-up that no one could tell the difference anymore? Was there even a difference anymore?

The ache in his legs had reached a pleasant burn by the time he went into his eighth mile. He couldn't continue like this, couldn't turn out like _them. _He'd have some excitement, some vigor, in his life, even if he had to go to hell and back to get it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Clusterfuck**

A/N: I don't think there are any particular warnings for this chapter. Just a general sense of angst and unhealthiness. Enjoy!**  
**

**Chapter Two**

Roderich was standing in the cramped produce section, inspecting apples for bruises, when he heard a couple of familiar voices unexpectedly. He might have flinched a bit – he wasn't quite sure – but he peeked out of the corners of his eyes to verify who it was.

Sure enough, it was that silver-haired douchebag that had been popping up practically everywhere over the past couple years, and he was with – Roderich's heart panged a little at the recognition, but it had been ages and he had never really cared about the guy anyway and it shouldn't still be hurting to run into him around town occasionally because that was just plain irrational – Antonio. And Antonio's little boyfriend, or whatever the two of them were.

_Don't be bitter_, he told himself as he placed his carefully selected apples into the grocery basket and marched off down another aisle to pick up flour for a cake. Once he couldn't see them anymore, he huffed in frustration and began to inspect the rows of paper flour sacks – but then he realized he could still _hear_ them. Joy.

"You were a little bit obvious, you know, staring like that." That was unmistakably Antonio; Roderich would recognize the calm lilt of his voice anywhere, though he wished he wouldn't…

"Can you blame me?" Gilbert laughed, "Got kicked out of the apartment so Francis could fuck what's-his-face, so I'm just making the best of a bad situation."

Roderich would swear he could hear the cocky, sleazy grin in those words.

"Didn't _have_ to leave." That would be the grumpy-looking boyfriend.

"Yes, we did, Lovi," Antonio explained patiently over Gilbert's cackling, "We've discovered it's, ah… awkward to try and stay."

"But that was _after_ the whole drinking game thing," Gil chortled.

"I don't even want to know. You're all sick," Lovi snapped.

"You like it, though, cutie-" there were sounds of struggling coming over the shelves, and from what he could hear of the angry cursing coming from the one called Lovi, Roderich figured he was trying to get away from Antonio. He had always been a little too affectionate – Roderich smacked himself in the forehead for thinking of that – it had been years. He shouldn't be thinking of Antonio, shouldn't be remembering – Stop.

He had to stop. He should turn around and walk to the checkout and just leave, but somehow he couldn't; he was mesmerized with his eavesdropping and didn't want to pull himself away…

"But seriously, Gil – ouch - you shouldn't bother – be gentle, Lovi – he's with Lizzie, yeah?"

Gil snorted, "Sure, he's with Lizzie, but you know that shit's not right. He's _way_ too pretty to be straight, and you know it."

Realizing that they were talking about _him, _Roderich almost choked on air, and had to press a fist to his mouth to keep himself from spluttering aloud. For one, he and Lizzie had broken up months ago, and for two, why the fuck was a complete stranger contemplating his sexuality? Rude. And what the fuck did he mean, _pretty?_

He wished that he was bold enough to walk on over to the next aisle and tell them to fuck off and he wasn't any of their business because he didn't even like any of them anyway, but his face was burning and the mixture of rage and mortification had clogged up in his chest and frozen his limbs.

"I'm pretty sure he is – stop squirming – I mean, we dated a few years ago, and he never seemed all that interested."

The struggling noises from the next aisle stopped abruptly, and Roderich felt his face growing hot. Antonio just _had_ to bring that up, didn't he?

"What?" Antonio's little boyfriend spat.

There was a thud – something sizable hit the shelves on the other side – and stomping footsteps leaving the store. Mortified, Roderich wished he could sink into the tiles and disappear.

Gilbert's absolutely irritating laughter rang out again from the other aisle, "You're fucked, man, you should know better than to mention the ex around your new… well, whatever."

Then, Antonio was running out of the store too, and Roderich decided to hide out in the freezer section until the whole thing blew over.

* * *

Eventually, he made it home, dragged himself up the stairs to the little apartment he and Lizzie shared. It was late – too late to start baking that cake he had wanted to, so it would just have to wait until tomorrow. He shouldered the door open, trudged across the cluttered living room (Lizzie was still in the process of moving in), and set the grocery bags down heavily in the middle of their small kitchen.

A moment to let out a heavy sigh and roll his shoulders, and then he started searching through the fridge and cabinets to figure out a place for everything to go. Ever since Lizzie had starting moving in he hadn't been able to find _anything_, and he had to consciously remind himself not to be frustrated, not to snap at her, even though opening up three different cabinets just to figure out where she'd put the dishes irritated the hell out of him. And he was already irritated.

He hated running into Antonio; it was unpleasant to be reminded of his first relationship, all of those years ago… They had been in high school, had met through a community orchestra that they had both been in – it was one of the ones that was fairly exclusive and required an audition. Roderich had aced his, of course; he hadn't expected any less – but he had been surprised to meet the calm, relaxed percussionist after rehearsal one day. He had wondered why Antonio had wanted to try out for a competitive placement in the first place – he had seemed like a peaceful, nonconfrontational type – but as they had gotten to know each other, things started making a little more sense.

It was one of those circumstances where opposites attracted and Roderich found himself falling into something he hadn't been quite ready for, something he didn't understand, but something he wanted all the same. There was something that had always been strangely, undeniably attractive about Antonio – maybe it was the way he spoke, or the way he moved, slowly and precisely, or maybe it was his calm, sweet smile or the way he was always so damn cheerful, even when Roderich was frustrated to the point where he thought he might explode.

It didn't really matter what it was, really… He had never known how to express that; he had been awkward, he had been cold and standoffish, he hadn't known how to act or react, and the entire experience had been uncomfortable. But that didn't mean that he hadn't cared about Antonio, and it certainly didn't negate the hurt when Antonio had left him for someone else. He had to assume that someone else was the small, angry man from the grocer's.

For the longest time, Roderich had thought that seeing the man Antonio had left him for would bring him a sense of closure, would let him move on, but it didn't help. It stung, it burned, it made him wonder what the hell was wrong with him that Anger Management Boy was a preferable choice.

It didn't help that Gilbert had been there, either, and it certainly didn't help that the two of them had apparently decided that his sexuality was an appropriate topic to discuss in public. He couldn't think of anything that was less of their business – he really didn't want anything to do with either of them – yet their assumptions irked him nonetheless. Was he gay, was he straight, was he just convenient eye candy? All or none of the above?

Maybe he didn't even know. Maybe he didn't even care. Whatever he was, it wasn't anyone's business but his own.

Goddamn. This wasn't what he wanted to be thinking about – all it was doing was pissing him off, making him take trains of thought into unpleasant places, places where he was never good enough, where he never would be good enough… He didn't want to get stuck there tonight. He needed to relax – get his mind to focus on something else for a change so he could start off the school year thinking about something else other than the lengthy string of failures and inadequacies that made up his life.

The cupboards closed with a loud bang, and Roderich stomped over to the corner of the small living room where his keyboard sat – it was old, but in pristine condition despite the heavy use he put it through. He wished he had the space to keep an actual piano – even a little upright would do; he knew it would be a long time yet before he would have the space or the money to have a grand – one with depth to the keys and actual strings that he would have to tune from time to time. The keyboard he kept for now had little soul to its tinny little electronic notes, but, no matter how much he loved music, he couldn't justify the idea of renting out a larger apartment and buying a piano at a time when he technically didn't have any income besides his grants and student loans. He could make do with this and the practice rooms at school for now, as he had for the past three years.

His fingers flitted over the keys – damn, he was clumsy; he bungled a run there, fingers tripping over each other and getting tangled up in themselves… Those chords in the left hand were far too loud, overpowering the melody that was supposed to be delicate, but was actually coming out like Roderich was a toddler with his fingers taped together pounding at the keys… And was he speeding up? He was, wasn't he?

Fuck, couldn't he do _anything_ right?

He slammed his hands down on the keys, letting out a petulant, frustrated huff, simultaneously fuming at his own inadequacy and ashamed at behaving like a child having a temper tantrum – just more things to add to his long list of the ways he couldn't be a proper, functioning adult.

And then Lizzie was right there – where had she come from? – her hands brushing through his hair, rubbing at his shoulders, reassuring him that everything was going to be alright…

He leaned back against her, and she supported him, wrapping arms around his shoulders – he closed his eyes and let a little relaxed smile slip over his face.

"Have you really been listening to me play this crap?"

"It's not crap. It sounded wonderful – well, at least it _was_ wonderful until you got mad and started just hitting the keys," she soothed, giving him a squeeze before getting sidetracked by playing with his hair.

He let himself relax against her hands – he knew he shouldn't be doing this, he should be trying to maintain boundaries and keeping things from getting too unnecessarily messy – she had always known how to tell when he was angry, and she had always known how to calm him down. It had been wonderful when they were together, and, though it still worked, the calm that she brought was tinged by a sense of guilt.

He felt like he was taking advantage; he really should be keeping farther away. It was obvious she wasn't over the breakup yet… Things had changed, sometime over the summer. She'd started looking at him in a way that completely freaked him out, as if he was perfection, as if he was everything that was right and good with the world, as if he was a saint or a god or some mighty, virtuous title that he absolutely did not deserve. He was _human_, he had his own set of issues that he tried to hide as best he could, and he knew he couldn't live up to whatever it was she had started seeing in him.

So he'd left – he'd tried to be as gentle as possible, of course, but now he was wondering if that had been the best way to go about things. She still looked at him in that same way, when she thought he wasn't paying attention… He didn't want to be cruel, he didn't want to hurt her, but he didn't want to lose her friendship either.

This was probably just going to end up another stupid fucking mistake to add on to his list, but he couldn't bring himself to draw away. They had made a decent couple, somewhere in the past, but they had always been better friends – in fact, very little had noticeably changed when they started going out, well, besides the sex, and at least until _that look _had started happening, so why couldn't things go back to the way they had been before just as easily…?

He was starting to realize that it wasn't going to be easy.

"It wasn't wonderful," he muttered – he wasn't angry anymore, just resigned, "It was probably one of the most disgraceful things I've ever done."

"Quit being so melodramatic," she was probably rolling her eyes now, if he knew anything about her, "You're way too hard on yourself sometimes. Most of the time, actually."

_Not hard enough_ – he didn't voice the thought, but let himself bask in all that she offered him: comfort, acceptance, loving arms to come home to, someone to talk to when he was frustrated or feeling down or just tired of everything that happened in the world.

He tried not to think of all the things he couldn't offer her.

This was all going to blow up in his face in the end, he just knew it – like so many other things had in his past. But he couldn't turn away.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, alerts, and favorites last chapter - I really wasn't expecting anyone to read this, thanks so much! All of the little notification emails I get make me happy in my heart :) Anything that comes in for this chapter will be received with love~

The "action" will start up more in the next chapter, thanks for being patient through the chunks of exposition.

And now for some shameless advertising... I just posted up another PruAus AU called _Fame_ - this one's genderbent, Pru is a ridiculous pop star and Aus is her self-loathing songwriter. I know yuri's not everyone's cup of tea, but check it out if you're interested! I'm also working on a collab-fic called _Synchronicity_ under the penname _YuriGoddesses_ (in case you couldn't guess, this one's also yuri). It's a Victorian AU SuFin. My co-writers for that one are the lovely minn's . star (no spaces, formatting's being funky), and the awesome BehindTheSky, so check them out too~


	3. Chapter 3

**Clusterfuck**

A/N: Sorry for the wait – life happened, and then this one turned out to be more difficult to write than I was anticipating. Warnings for this chapter: alcohol, hints at use of other drugs, and that's about it.

**Chapter Three**

The lights were swirling and the music was loud and throbbing through his veins, and Gilbert finally felt free of the constant cloud of numbness that filled his head like a wad of damp cotton. He moved along with the beat and the sway of the crowd, his euphoria rising and dropping with the intensity of the music, his attention captured by the interplay of bright multicolored lights streaking across his vision and leaving trails behind.

He felt intimately connected to every person in the room, the raw energy bounding through the crushing masses, every person moving in unison to the same rhythm, consumed by the same sounds, captivated by the same lights, touching and bumping and jostling into each other, but who the fuck cared?

And that was the beauty of it – he didn't know who the hell any of these people were (fuck, he couldn't even tell, with the darkness and the dancing bright lights and the constant movement and his blurred vision) and he didn't fucking care. But they were all brought together here, despite whatever differences that he couldn't even think clearly enough to name, and they were all captured by the same energy of music pounding in every chest, alongside every heartbeat; the same vibrancy of color and shimmer and sparkle reflected in every eye; the same pervasive haze of drunkenness and god only knew what else that lifted inhibitions, making every laugh louder, every touch freer, every movement wilder.

It was bliss; it was intoxicating. He felt his face splitting into a grin he couldn't wipe away even if he'd wanted to, a stupid, shit-faced grin that he wasn't forcing, wasn't faking for once in his life.

He never wanted this feeling to end, but he knew it would have to, eventually. He couldn't keep it up, drinking the alcohol and swallowing the pills that gave him this bliss, because it was all poison and he knew it would kill him if he tried to keep going. But was it so wrong to chase after it for just one night – just one night of ecstasy to interrupt the senseless eternity that it had all become?

None of that really mattered now that his head was filling up with the pleasant sort of haze that chased the emptiness away, replacing it with a heady, euphoric buzz and the feeling that everyone in the room was a long-lost best friend, perhaps a lost love from his childhood or someone equally as profound that he had simply lost touch with, and a few carefully placed words could rekindle those magical feelings in all their intensity and then maybe he could feel this happy for the rest of his life, without relying on drinking down the alcohol or swallowing the pills.

Someone behind him on the dance floor was touching him, and he could feel that it was deliberate – he could feel the solidity of their body pressed up against his back, the hands that wound their way along his arms and up the lines of his body, fingertips tracing the tendons in his neck and making every nerve ending feel as if it were about to explode from the sheer concentration of pleasure that another human's touch was giving him. He closed his eyes and let himself grin and melt into the touch, pressing himself back up against whoever it was, craving more – he felt fucking invincible, like nothing could ever go wrong; this touch was the single most amazing thing he could imagine right now.

Wet lips pressed to the base of his neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there, and Gil groaned, arched his back with the pleasure, pressing and grinding himself closer and tighter up against its source, mindlessly seeking _more, more._ The hand that had pushed up his shirt in order to trace teasingly light circles over his stomach started exploring lower, slipping under the waistband of his tightly fitting jeans and creeping achingly slowly down the sharp outline of his hipbone – another hand slipped lightly, almost playfully, over his mouth, and Gil nipped at the fingers and captured one with his lips, blindly kissing and licking and sucking at it, thrilled and wordlessly hoping for more.

Suddenly, more hands grabbed him, rougher this time, pulling him away from the wonderful body that had enveloped him, the wonderful lips and tongue and hands that he wanted so desperately to return to. He opened his eyes, indignant, and tried to protest, but he was being pulled out of the crushing crowd and the lights were dancing in his eyes, leaving colorful trails behind that blinded him, and he couldn't see where he had left or where he was headed to or who the hell was pulling him around.

He was pulled out of the dark room and into a blinding brightness, then clumsily up a flight of stairs, and the next thing he knew, he felt like he was becoming one with a particularly squishy sofa, and Ludwig's stern face was floating there, staring at him, a hint of worry discernible to Gilbert's eyes.

"The fuck just happened?" Gil managed to get out around a tongue that felt like limp cotton and jaws that wanted to clench rather than cooperate, "Why'd you pull me out of there?"

"You would be thanking me if you knew who you were with down there," Ludwig said darkly, "How much have you had to drink? And what the hell else have you had?"

Gilbert shrugged; he'd stopped counting his drinks a long time ago, and there wasn't really any point in telling Luddy the details anyway, because he'd just worry and lecture, and his forehead would wrinkle up just like Dad's did when he was upset, and Gil didn't want to see that fucking forehead of disapproval ever again in his lifetime.

Ludwig frowned. His forehead wrinkled. Gilbert swore at him for it, and the frown deepened.

"Don't fucking blame me when you're wishing for death in the morning," he muttered, getting to his feet. "I'm getting you some water, you need it. _Stay here,_" Ludwig instructed him, marching off.

Barely a minute had passed before Gilbert got bored of sitting on the couch and decided to seek out some entertainment. Voices were coming from the direction Ludwig had gone, and Gil's brain put together that this must be the kitchen, so he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and headed on over himself.

There were smaller groups gathered here, chattering and laughing and drinking beer out of cans or sickly sweet vodka-spiked punch out of red plastic cups

Ludwig had been sidetracked by the sink, practically tackled into a countertop by the little brunet that had taken to following him around of late, so Gil took the opportunity to scan the room for any distractions, and he found the perfect one.

Lizzie. The long-lost childhood friend – they'd grown up together, fought together, played together, raised absolute hell together, and he couldn't for the life of him remember why they had ever stopped talking. He'd walk over, say something witty, strike up a conversation, and they'd make up and be friends again and everything would be all bright and Technicolor as their childhood used to be…

He'd barely approached her and opened his mouth before she told him, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off.

"But why, Lizzie?" he slurred, trying and failing to gracefully and casually lean up against the stretch of wall beside her, "We were always such good friends."

She huffed, sharply crossing her arms in front of her, "I don't know what the hell exactly you're remembering, because I have _never_ considered you to be a friend of mine. And I would appreciate it if you would take a fucking hint and leave me alone."

Gil felt as if the floor had dropped out of his world – this was _not_ going the way he had expected – and he stood flabbergasted, mind sluggishly racing to try to figure out what exactly he had done wrong. They had been friends, right? Why was she denying that? Why would she just shut him out?

"What do you mean, we were never friends?" he managed to get out, "We grew up together, didn't we? We always used to play knights together."

"If I could've chosen my neighbors, we wouldn't have," she cut in, "And I don't count years of continual harassment as _playing_."

"Harassment?" No, it hadn't been harassment, it was just the way they had played together – yes, they'd always had their neighborhood wars, and they'd always played whatever pranks on each other, and _yes_, technically he'd laid siege to her treehouse for an entire afternoon once, but that wasn't – that wasn't _harassment._ "It wasn't like that, I didn't mean it like that, and, well, you always got back at me, so I thought it was all in good fun-"

She scoffed disdainfully at him.

"-And it wasn't like we were _always_ playfighting - yes, _play_fighting. We had our moments. We did. I remember we had a couple of heart-to-hearts-"

"Which I will regret to my dying day," she deadpanned. He must have been giving her a look of utter bewilderment, because she rolled her eyes and elaborated, "You completely misinterpreted what I said and told our entire fifth grade class that I thought I was a boy."

He blinked. "Wait, you didn't?"

"No," she hissed, exasperated, "I _said _I liked being a knight because it would've sucked to be a princess stuck sitting around somewhere while the boys had all the fun."

"Are you sure you said that _exactly?_ Because that's sure not what I remember."

She growled, "If you weren't drunk off your ass already I swear I would-"

Another voice interrupted them, "Lizzie, calm – what is going on?"

Gilbert turned and was met with a vision of beauty, one Roderich Edelstein, lips turned down into a pouty frown, and looking uncharacteristically disheveled from being bumped around by all the people that had been packed into the house. Something about it all made him look even more enticing, and Gil found himself shifting closer to him before the warning bells went off in his head, screaming, _Lizzie's boyfriend! Lizzie's boyfriend! _ He forced himself to shift back away – that would be one way to piss Lizzie off that even he didn't want to tempt.

Roderich held a fresh cup out to Lizzie, but she shook her head, "Not now, I- I should go, I'm not really feeling up to staying any longer." She waved Roderich away and started out of the kitchen, flashing him a fake half-smile, "I'll be fine, I don't want to be a downer or ruin your night or anything. I'll see you later."

The other man stood there, his expression impassive and unreadable. He took a long sip out of his cup, and Gil snagged the one Lizzie had turned down.

"I'm not sure I even want to know what just happened," Roderich said dryly.

"I'm not sure I even know what just happened," Gil returned, shaking his head.

Roderich's head snapped over to look at him, as if he hadn't been expecting a response, or at least not that response, and he looked at Gilbert as if only just noticing him for the first time. His eyes flicked over Gil's frame, and Gil couldn't help but stare back.

If there ever was a man who could be called beautiful, it was Roderich – even here, standing in someone else's kitchen under fluorescent lighting, his hair mussed, his face flushed from the alcohol and the fact that he'd worn a button-up shirt and fringed scarf to a crowded house party on a muggy August night. His lips, stained purple from the punch, were ever-so-slightly parted, and his eyebrows were knotted in an expression of adorable concentration, and Gilbert had to take a gulp of his drink to hide a giddy grin.

"You look like shit," Roderich said, but that didn't do much to dampen Gil's spirit.

"You don't," he replied, cocking an appreciative eyebrow in Roderich's direction, "Means you haven't been partying hard enough. We can fix that."

"No, thank you," he tried to protest, but Gil had already grabbed him by the arm and was dragging him in a haphazard path around the scattered kitchen furniture.

"Shots," he said, his grin oozing exuberance as he pulled Roderich up to the countertop, "What do you want?"

"No," Roderich insisted, "We should get you home, you've had enough-"

"Come on, Roddy, just one shot. Just one." _Just one._ It would be fun – he seriously needed to loosen up, he and Lizzie both, standing around in corners being wet blankets and mood killers at a fucking _party._

Roderich sighed, "One shot, and then you'll come with me to find Ludwig and you'll go home and sleep this off."

"If it'll make you feel better, sure, but I'm feeling fine, Roddy. Better than I've ever felt in my life." And it was true – he _knew _he was just standing around in a dirty kitchen with a bunch of other drunks, but somehow the harsh light felt golden, and Roderich's very presence by his side made him feel as though he were floating. All of his limbs felt light, his head felt light, and he couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop sneaking glances over at the absolutely beautiful man he could barely believe was going along with all of this…

"Whatever. Just never call me _Roddy_ again."

Gil smirked, "No promises."

He poured out the shots clumsily and licked away the vodka that he'd spilled over his hand in the process before handing one to Roderich.

"Cheers," he said, raising his shot glass with a smile and downing it in one gulp.

* * *

End A/N: Again, thanks for the patience – I'm going to work on updating my other story next, then chapter four of Clusterfuck will pick up with Austria, and chapter five will finally introduce Switzerland. Originally, I had this story outlined out to be about twenty chapters, but it's coming out longer than I expected, so I guess we'll just have to see what happens and where the characters take me.

As always, thanks so much to my reviewers/favoriters/followers, I really do appreciate everything. It brightens my day up so much to see those little alert emails arrive in my inbox :3


	4. Chapter 4

**Clusterfuck**

**Chapter Four**

A/N: Hoooooly shit. I'm so sorry this took like six months to write. I got distracted by other stories and the kink meme, and then, well… As you might be able to guess, I am very good at getting myself into fun albeit destructive situations, and, uh, to summarize, I wasn't able to write for a long time. I'm sort of better now. Thanks to any readers who have stuck around for so long, and welcome to anyone new.

For this chapter, only warnings are for the use of alcohol as a coping method, and general relationship angst.

* * *

Roderich wasn't one to go to house parties, especially ones thrown by a particular Alfred F. Jones, but he did make exceptions every once in a while. It usually happened towards the beginnings of semesters, before he'd had a chance to get sick of the human race as a whole. Plus, Lizzie had wanted to go out and do something tonight, so Roderich had jumped at the opportunity to get her mind off of whatever it was that made her watch him with eyes like a lovesick, kicked puppy. He didn't like to see her hurting, but he also knew there was little he could do about it without getting himself embroiled back into a situation that would make him highly uncomfortable.

And so he found himself standing in Alfred's kitchen, surrounded by drunk people who generally seemed intent on making complete fools of themselves. Surely there were some who would consider this a successful party, Roderich thought, noting that the music from the dance floor in the basement was making the entire house buzz along with electronic squeals and screeches that passed for modern music.

He and Lizzie were leaning up against the kitchen countertop, quietly sipping on drinks out of red plastic party cups (god only knew Roderich needed the alcohol in order to deal with so many stupid, loud drunk people) and watching drunken drama explode around them.

"Bets on who Francis is taking home tonight?"

"Arthur. No doubt."

"Really? I… don't think so."

"But they've been spending an awful lot of time together, for how much they say they hate each other. They've _got_ to be sleeping together."

"Didn't say they weren't fucking. Just that it's not happening tonight. Artie's had an awful lot to drink."

Roderich considered that.

"He's probably gonna bitch out on Francis, get all clingy over Al, and then pass out in the bathroom. I'd bet money on it."

"…That sounds about right, now that you mention it," he agreed.

"Damn straight," she grinned, finishing off the last of her glass.

His own cup had been empty for a little too long; Roderich felt the pleasant buzz of drunkenness starting to leave his head, and the constant noise – the shouting, the bickering, the insults and teasing, and, most of all, that tripe that passed for music these days – was starting to grate on his nerves. He needed more to drink. Maybe then he wouldn't notice it as much, and the evening would be tolerable.

He turned to look around the room, locating the punch bowl that held the particularly potent mixture of alcohol and sweetener and artificial flavorings that had been left out for the party-goers, and held out his hand for her glass, "Shall I get you another?"

Unexpectedly – he almost flinched back – her hand was in his, warm and soft and pulling him close, far too close for comfort.

Before he knew what was happening, her face was pressed up next to his – she must have been standing on tiptoes in order to reach – her mouth next to his ear, so close he could feel her lips moving as she spoke.

"Oh my god, look!" she whispered excitedly, "Feli and Ludwig! I didn't even know they _knew_ each other, and they're so _cute-"_

Roderich turned his head to look, at the same time trying to surreptitiously pry himself away from her, but by now she was clinging to his arm. There was no way he could think of to shake her off without seeming rude, so he let her stay close as he looked.

"Cute, maybe, if Ludwig ever figures it out," Roderich replied shortly.

"Come on, not everyone's as unromantic as you. He'll figure it out."

Roderich rolled his eyes, "That's true, but, believe it or not, there are people out there who are worse than me. Ludwig's come to me for dating advice before, and if that's not a mark of a hopeless case, I don't know what is."

"No fucking way. What did you tell him?"

"Gave him a _For Dummies_ book and figured he'd figure it out," he shrugged.

Lizzie laughed uproariously at that, resting her head on his shoulder and leaning against him for support. As her body pressed up against his, her face settling itself into the crook of his neck and a hand finding its way to his collar, Roderich stiffened, uncomfortable.

"…How about I grab us another round of drinks now?" he suggested, gently pushing her away.

"Oh," her eyes were wide with realization, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… It's just habit, and, fuck it, I'm drunk…"

"It's alright," he said, forcing himself to keep his voice calm and patient. It wasn't her fault; if anything, it was his, for breaking things off and then letting them continue to try and make a friendship work. It was a stupid idea. A stupid, selfish idea, and, in the long run, she would probably be better off without him, so that she could move on and heal, but he couldn't bring himself to do that.

Instead, he took the cup from her hand, turned, and pushed his way through the crowd towards the punch bowl.

Practically everyone he knew must be here, he thought as he squeezed his way through the kitchen, dodging the occasional overenthusiastic gesture or drunken stumble. Well, maybe not everyone. He and Lizzie had made a brief excursion to dance in the basement at the beginning of the night, and since then, they'd been standing near enough to the front door to see everyone who went in and out of the house.

At least one person was notably missing. Not that it came as any kind of surprise to Roderich, seeing as Vash hadn't been the most socially outgoing person even back when they were friends. It had been… Holy shit, it had been over a year now since they had spoken, and, somehow, Roderich found himself feeling a bit melancholy about that. He didn't like to think about Vash being alone and isolated, since he knew the other man wasn't the type to get himself out more and make new friends….

He shook his head. If Vash got sick of his self-imposed solitude, then it was his own damn fault.

His train of thought was then rudely interrupted by the short, angry Italian storming up the stairs and barreling straight into him – Roderich was knocked off his feet and into someone else (someone else who called him a "bloody wanker," which was almost immediately followed by Francis's rather distinct laugh).

The other man fixed him with a glare, the anger radiating off him almost tangible and so captivating that Roderich couldn't look away.

Finally, he muttered, "Bastard," spat at Roderich's feet, and stormed out the front door.

As his brain tried to piece together what exactly had just happened, Roderich picked himself up off the ground, narrowly avoiding being knocked to the ground again as Antonio came clattering up the stairs.

"Did he…?" he asked, frantic, as he paused to catch his breath at the top of the stairs.

"He left," came Francis's (inappropriately amused, given the situation) voice from somewhere behind Roderich, "And it just may be a better idea to leave him alone for a little while. Give him space. Let him miss you, no?"

Francis guided Antonio over to the table and handed him a drink; Roderich groaned internally as he realized that they seemed to intend on staying right there, by the punch bowl, for some time. But Roderich wasn't about to back down, even if it did end up being awkward.

So he walked up, pretending that the two men in question didn't exist, filled two cups with the garishly red liquid, and turned to walk away, carefully ignoring everything…

Everything except the hand that landed on his wrist. He flinched, sloshing red over the backs of his hands and onto his shirt, and then Antonio's face was in front of him, his usual grin nowhere to be seen.

It was unnerving, in a way – Roderich was pretty sure he could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen the other man without that (infuriatingly constant) smile on his face. In fact, he'd wondered more than once if Antonio felt anything, or if he was just very good at hiding it, particularly during those times when Roderich was feeling absolutely crushed following their breakup and Antonio was walking around as if he hadn't a care in the world…

Looking at his face now, seeing the little, forced half-smile that somehow seemed even more alien on that face than a frown would, Roderich wondered if maybe he'd been wrong for thinking Antonio hadn't felt anything.

"I'm sorry," Antonio said softly.

Roderich chose to interpret that as an apology for the drinks, and said, "No matter. It'll wash out." _Hopefully._

"No. I mean, well, that too, but I meant… Sorry. For Lovi. Did he – He didn't… say anything to you, did he?"

"Called me a bastard," Roderich shrugged.

The corner of Antonio's mouth quirked up at that, and somehow the expression was more melancholy than merry, "That sounds like him. I really am sorry, I don't want to bother you or anything, it's just… I don't know what it is."

The expression on his face was just so _sad_ that Roderich cringed internally and leaned back up against the counter. _Christ,_ he couldn't believe he was going to sit here and have a bit of a chat with his ex-whatever about his new angsty boyfriend who was throwing some sort of temper tantrum, but he didn't feel right about leaving Antonio alone like this. And since Francis had apparently gotten distracted talking to some blonde (god, freshmen were getting younger and younger every year), the task of cheering up the Spaniard fell to him.

"What do you _think_ it is, then?"

Antonio didn't answer for a long moment, "I shouldn't be bothering you with this," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I've made a lot of mistakes, in the past. A lot of mistakes that I keep on making," he trailed off momentarily, then continued, "And I just don't know how to fix it."

"Does anyone ever?" Roderich shot back.

Antonio shrugged – he was still watching the door, and Roderich knew he was thinking of going to follow the little one called Lovi.

"Sometimes," he managed to say, "sometimes, it's nice to be alone when you're angry. It's nice to get it all out of your system without worrying about scaring or hurting anyone else. But then, once it's gone, it can feel very lonely."

"Like you know," Antonio managed a bit of a laugh, "You never get angry. Annoyed, yes, irritated, yes, but not… Not like this."

Roderich shrugged mildly, "Maybe I'm just really good at pretending."

"I probably gave you plenty to be angry about, but it never seemed like you cared. For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry," he set his cup down, "I should probably go after him."

Roderich waved after him as he left, remembering that Antonio had never done the same for him when he had walked away angry.

He shook his head and glanced back across the room to check on Lizzie… And there was Gil. Oh fuck. Someone needed to break them up before something bad happened –

"If you weren't drunk off your ass already, I swear I would – "

"Lizzie, calm – " Roderich stepped between them, offering her one of the cups, "What is going on?"

Lizzie shook her head at the cup, "Not now, I- I should go, I'm not really feeling up to staying any longer." She smiled as she made her excuses to leave, and it was obvious to Roderich that it was fake, forced, but it was equally as obvious that she wouldn't appreciate being called out on it. He'd have to ask her more later. "I'll be fine, I don't want to be a downer or ruin your night or anything. I'll see you later."

And then she was gone, and Roderich was left there standing with Gilbert the silver-headed asshole, and he was seriously going to need a lot more to drink in order to deal with this one, so he took a long sip.

"I'm not sure I even want to know what just happened," he muttered.

"I'm not sure I even know what just happened," Gil said, and Roderich glanced over at him.

He looked awful - hair sticking up in every direction, glowstick innards smeared all over his clothes and skin, a faint bruise starting to show just over his hipbone where his tank top was scrunched up - and Roderich told him so, suspecting that he'd been down in that basement being jostled around by sweaty people, dancing and smoking and having beers spilt on him all night.

But Gil didn't seem fazed by that observation. Instead, he suggested shots.

Baaaaad idea. The man already looked like he was barely holding himself together.

"No," Roderich protested, "We should get you home, you've had enough-"

But there was no one around to back him up on that, no one who gave a shit about how much either of them had to drink, so long as everyone kept smiling and dancing and didn't disrupt the flow, the atmosphere. Ludwig had vanished, and they were surrounded by people gathered into little drunken, babbling clusters, minds clouded by the haze of alcohol and whatever else, caring little about anything that happened outside of their own spheres of existence.

"Come on, Roddy, just one shot. Just one."

Well, what could one hurt? "Fine. One shot, and then you'll come with me to find Ludwig and you'll go home and sleep this off."

A grin spread across Gil's face, and there was a fire burning in his eyes and glinting in his smile that was compelling, iridescent among the scattered drab drunks in the grimy kitchen. "If it'll make you feel better, sure, but I'm feeling fine, Roddy. Better than I've ever felt in my life."

He sounded so cocky that Roderich almost believed him – he couldn't believe that he was being taken in by him, this brash, arrogant drunk who wouldn't know propriety if it marched up and smacked him in the face. "Whatever," he grumbled, "Just never call me _Roddy_ again."

"No promises," Gil smirked. He handed over a shot glass. "Cheers," he said, and knocked it back.

Roderich did the same. It burned going down – it was the nasty cheap shit, but it was certainly efficient – but he managed not to make a face after he'd swallowed it. A sip of punch helped with the lingering burn.

"Chasing alcohol with more alcohol. Classy," Gil was smirking again, as he poured and downed another shot, so quickly that Roderich almost missed it, "Wonder how much of a party we could get out of you yet. C'mon," his hot hand wrapped around Roderich's wrist, "this party is just getting started."

"You said we'd go find Ludwig. You said you'd go home and rest," Roderich protested.

But Gil didn't listen. "And maybe Ludwig's downstairs." He sidled up to Roderich and laced their free hands together. "No reason we can't enjoy ourselves while we find him. The night is still young."

Roderich leaned away from where their chests were pressing together and looked around the room. People had started to trickle out over the past half hour or more; there were still enough around that it wasn't terribly awkward, but things were clearly winding down.

Gil smirked down at him, and Roderich found himself unable to form words of protest – then Gil was pulling him across the room and stumbling down the first few steps.

His head snapped back into the game, and he tried to pull Gil back. "You really should sit down. I'll find Ludwig," Roderich insisted, but Gilbert was not about to give in.

"Not about to let you have all the fun-"

He tugged back on Roderich's arm, probably harder than he intended, because it threw both men off-balance. Roderich staggered, trying to keep them both from falling, but gravity was taking over and Gil wasn't exactly helping. He wasn't sure that Gil currently had the mental capacity to realize that they were falling, and they stumbled down more and more stairs until Roderich's back hit the wall at the end of the flight of stairs.

Gilbert was sprawled against his chest, looking dazed, and Roderich's arms were wrapped around his waist to keep the other man from sliding to the ground.

"See what happens when you do shots _after_ you already did lord only knows what else?" Roderich said disdainfully as Gil struggled to get his feet back under himself.

"So?" Gil retorted, his eyes flicking down, then up again, his gaze intense, burning, "I actually don't mind… this…"

Roderich huffed and brought his arms up to push Gilbert away, but then their mouths were pressed together. He jolted his head back, bashing it against the wall, but Gil was undeterred. He leaned closer, his weight pinning Roderich against the wall. A hand squeezed Roderich's ass, and he gasped into the kiss.

He could feel Gilbert's satisfied smirk, and then the other man's tongue worked its way into his mouth. Dazed at the sensation, he kissed back, the taste a weird mixture of cheap beer, sugary punch, and something else he couldn't quite place. Gil nipped at his lips, and the sharp feeling startled Roderich back to reality again.

He turned his face away. "What the _fuck?"_

Gil didn't answer, being busy sucking on Roderich's neck. Angry now, Roderich tried to shove him away, but the basement door was swinging open.

"Whoa!" It was Alfred. Shit.

Roderich shoved Gil off of him, and he landed hard against the stairs.

"You don't need to do that, dude, I can take the other stairs," Al assured him, throwing him a wink and slipping back through the door.

Roderich groaned, "Shit."

* * *

End A/N: Thanks again for all the patience. Next chapter: Switzy finally makes his appearance. After that: the morning after.

Happy Valentine's Day to all you lovely readers, hope you all have a wonderful day. My plans for the evening involve boxed wine and video games, because I'm classy like that and people just suck sometimes. Not you guys, though, you're wonderful :3

As always, I appreciate reviews/favorites/follows. You guys make me smile :D


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